


these two hours

by arialin



Series: in search of simplicity [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha John, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, F/M, Infidelity, M/M, Mpreg, Omega Sherlock, Omega Verse, Post Reichenbach, a little glimpse into the mind of john watson, brief mention of suicide contemplation, john swears like a drunken sailor, mention of abortion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-14
Updated: 2013-05-14
Packaged: 2017-12-11 19:26:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/802323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arialin/pseuds/arialin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was not what John was expecting his day to be like when he woke up this morning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	these two hours

**Author's Note:**

> aka 'what John did in those 2 hours after he ran from Sherlock's bedside in chapter 3 of ["it's never easy"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/757283/chapters/1415835).' 
> 
> I'm not sure if this could be read as a standalone, it probably can't be, but if you want to give it a try feel free. 
> 
> I was asked to post it and well, here you go! Hopefully this will give a little insight into what John thinks of his and Sherlock's relationship, and also a glimpse into what he is thinking and the reasoning behind the decisions he will/has make/made. Also it contains a little more backstory I think.
> 
> ( _Italics_ for the most part are John's thoughts.)

The sunlight is blinding as John bursts through the hospital doors, the heat meeting him like a wall as he leaves the air conditioned cool. He gasps breathlessly and leans over to brace his shaking hands on his knees. 

_Sherlock, pregnant, baby, mine, oh Jesus fucking Christ, shit, fuck fuck fuck!_

The words cycle through his head, desperate and panicked. Sherlock is _pregnant_. Pregnant with _his_ child. 

He chokes and presses a hand to his mouth, nausea rolling in his belly. This cannot be happening to him, there is just no way that this can be happening. There is just _no way_ Sherlock can be having his baby, just _no_. 

He straightens up and breathes slowly – in through the mouth, out through the nose – he can’t afford to panic, panicking will not solve anything. He needs to calm down, think about this rationally. Deep breaths, carefully analyse the situation, proceed with the best course of action. 

His legs still tremble violently as he takes a step and walks over to the green, metal bench on his right, fag ends littering the floor signalling it as a place for concerned relatives to sit and fret and chain smoke religiously. He lowers himself down slowly and finds himself wishing that he’d left the last packet of cigarettes he’d confiscated from Sherlock in his trouser pocket so he could join them. The fact that this is the first time he’s craved a fag since the third year of uni doesn’t go unnoticed, _Jesus Christ_. 

He presses his fingers over his lips and closes his eyes with a sigh. 

_Right –_ shit _– right, okay_. 

Sherlock is pregnant. That is fact, 100% fact. There is no way that it can be a mistake considering he isn’t just ‘a little bit’ pregnant; 18 weeks is _quite a bit_ pregnant, bordering ‘a lot’, almost half way. Half way is _definitely_ a lot pregnant in John’s book; half way is ‘over the risky part, now let’s get serious’, half way is ‘you only have the best part of 4 months left until your life changes _forever_ ’, half way is ‘maybe we should start thinking about buying the crib?’ 

John sighs again, pressing his palms into his eyes sockets. _Fucking hell_.

Why didn’t Sherlock say? How long has he known? Why didn’t John _notice_? 

He’s a doctor for fucks sake! How did he live with Sherlock for nearly 5 months and not notice his flatmate’s condition? Sure Sherlock is small for 18 weeks, very small compared to some omegas John has seen, but still everything else was there. The sickness that John assumed was norovirus, the fatigue. Jesus, the well timed trip to Paris that was now quite obviously not spent rolling around in bed with Irene Adler; he’d even wondered not 3 days ago when the last time was he’d seen Sherlock with his forearm covered in nicotine patches. Just how had he been so _blind_? 

And why didn’t Sherlock tell him? It’s quite clear that he had known, if not only by his reaction to the doctor but also for the fact that he deliberately left the flat when his heat was due. So why didn’t he just say? 

John leans forward on the bench and rests his elbows on his knees, allowing his hands to drop down in between his legs. Did Sherlock think he’d be angry? _Was_ he angry? 

The sound of talking breaks through the gentle birdsong and John looks up from the pavement. He sees a group of nurses in uniform walking out of the entrance, pulling out cigarette packets and heading over towards where he is seated on the bench. He curses under his breath and stands, not wanting to get in the way of what he imagines as a well deserved smoke break. 

He walks quickly past the nurses and back towards the hospital, the cold blast of the air conditioning meeting him once again as he walks through the automatic doors. He hesitates as he stands in the reception area. He’s not ready to go back to Sherlock’s room yet, his head isn’t straight enough to deal with sitting in that tiny room with just Sherlock and their – _Jesus Christ_ – baby. He scans the signs quickly and sighs in relief when he sees an arrow for the hospital café, suddenly desperate for a cup of extremely strong coffee. 

The café is a little busy, full of patients, relatives, doctors and nurses alike. John makes his way through the half full tables and joins the back of a queue for hot drinks. He orders a large black coffee, skipping on the milk and sugar despite not really enjoying the bitterness. The woman at the counter shoots him a sympathetic smile when he fumbles clumsily with his change.

He picks up his coffee and makes his way over to an empty table in the corner, cursing softly when a slop of coffee drips over the side of the mug and onto the bottom of his shirt as he sits down. He takes a grateful gulp of the scolding drink before setting it down and exhaling resignedly, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table and placing his head in his hands. 

This was _definitely_ not how he’d expected to be spending his day when he woke up this morning; morning shift at the surgery, Sherlock being an increasing arse in the afternoon, date with Mary on the evening. 

_Fucking hell, Mary._

John swallows against a wave of nausea and panic. Mary, he’d have to tell Mary. He’d have to tell Mary everything about his and Sherlock’s ‘arrangement’, the fact that yes he and Sherlock had slept together at the very start of their relationship. She’d ask him if he loved Sherlock, of course she would ask, and could he lie? Could he look her in the eyes and tell her no, that he didn’t love Sherlock. That he didn’t love the man he had killed for within 2 days of meeting him, just so the stupid bastard didn’t poison himself before John got to know who the insane, beautiful, ridiculous idiot was. That he hadn’t thought of shooting himself in the head and ending it all when Sherlock had jumped off of a roof and left a broken, bloody mess all over the pavement. That he didn’t adore the man who infuriated him with 3am violin concertos, and severed fingers in the kettle, the man who performed experiments on his person without his knowledge; but also the man who had fixed John when he had thought himself beyond repair, the man who had breathed new life into him and given John a reason to wake up in the morning, the man who made his heart race with just a look. Could he _honestly_ do that?

No. No he couldn’t. And Mary wouldn’t stay if she knew. She wouldn’t stay even if John told her it didn’t matter, because he loves her just as much. That he wants her in his life forever, that when he’s had an awful day and the world feels dark and harsh and claustrophobic, that just her laugh makes everything alright again, brings him light and warmth and happiness. That he feels so incredibly lucky to have found her and have her in his life. That he wants to wrap her in his arms and never let her go. 

He can’t lose Mary, he can’t. But he can’t lose Sherlock either, not again, not after the last time. Someone is going to get hurt, and hurt badly no matter what. No matter what he does or says either Sherlock or Mary or both will end up getting hurt and John feels ill thinking about it; he'd do anything to keep them both from hurting, he'd move the world to protect them from coming to any harm, but this time he's not sure there is anything he can do to stop it.

He groans miserably and rubs his palms over his face harshly. The other thing to consider he tells himself is if Sherlock actually _wants_ the baby? Sherlock hadn’t said – or if John is honest with himself – he hadn’t given Sherlock chance to say. It’s true that Sherlock has probably known for a while now and has had ample opportunity for an abortion if he’d wanted, but he might not have been able to get an appointment before now and could have one in the next couple of days for all John knows. He could have decided on adoption, or he could have decided to keep it originally and has since changed his mind. John just doesn’t _know_.

It’s difficult really, to imagine Sherlock wanting children; Sherlock wanting to settle down and have a family, to give up part of his work and accept the ‘dull’ and ‘tedious’ parts of life readily. It was why John had never thought to talk to Sherlock about the possibility of a _them_ , despite the horrible, aching emptiness left in his chest after spending 7 days every 4 months with a pliant, and adoring Sherlock Holmes in his arms and bed. He wasn’t sure how he’d have dealt with Sherlock throwing it all back in his face if he’d just told Sherlock how much he loved him, how much he wanted him. 

He’ll support Sherlock in whatever he decides. He’ll be there for his son or daughter if Sherlock lets him, and if Sherlock wants an abortion well, well it’ll hurt most definitely, he’d be lying to himself if he said it wouldn’t – being a father is something John had been attempting to achieve since he’d finished his medical training – but a small voice in his head can’t help but suggest that maybe it would be for the best, the best resolution to a hopeless situation.

John feels a little sick at the thought and does his best to quash it mentally. He rises to his feet a little unsteadily and takes a breath, a wash of guilt passing over him. He needs to get back to Sherlock, Sherlock who is lying somewhere in this hospital ill and carrying his child and no doubt feeling vulnerable at this moment even though he’d protest otherwise. 

He walks back out of the café and follows the signs for Sherlock’s ward, finding his private room with ease. He knocks gently before opening the door and stepping inside, his stomach drops out quite dramatically when he realises that Sherlock is gone, mussed up sheets left in his wake. 

“Shit, _shit_!” John gasps and runs back out of the room and down to the nurse’s station at the end of the hallway. His shoes skid a little as he draws to a halt and the nurse behind the counter looks up at him with a raised brow. 

“Sherlock Holmes, room 608, what’s happened? I left and now he’s gone – ”

The nurse smiles at him placating and flips through one of the charts in front of her.

“He’s been taken down to Obstetrics for an ultrasound,” she says before looking up at John once again with a suspicious look on her face. “And who are you exactly?”

“John Watson. Doctor John Watson,” John answers, a sigh of relief in his voice. He can feel his heart rate decreasing as the panic fades away. “I’m his – his flatmate. The um,” he stammers, clearing his throat as he tries to get his head around the absurdity of it all. “The – the baby’s father.”

The nurse’s expression relaxes and she smiles at John with a friendlier grin than previously. 

“You’re free to join him if you like,” she says as she arranges some papers. “Obstetrics is 2 floors down on 4. The ultrasound room is at the end of the main corridor, they’ll be in there.”

“Thank you,” John replies, smiling briefly at the nurse before he turns and makes his way over to the stairs. He runs down quickly and bursts through the door onto the 4th floor, immediately startling at the pained screams echoing in the hallway. He winces a little at a particularly primal growl and makes his way down the corridor, checking the door numbers as he goes. 

He gets halfway down the hallway before he finds himself stopping despite the urge to continue and find Sherlock. He takes a step closer to the glass window in front of him and gently presses his palm against it. 

Inside the room are 6 plastic cots lined up, 4 of them holding small, wriggling, pink babies all swaddled in soft white blankets. John’s heart stutters minutely in his chest and a warm sensation rushes over him unexpectedly. None of them can be more than 2 days old, still wrinkled and squinty eyed and absolutely beautiful. The one closest to him squirms in it’s nest of blankets and allows it’s eyes to open, John freezes and stares. 

The baby is dark haired and blue eyed, and for a moment all John can think about is if this is what his and Sherlock’s child will look like. So tiny and fragile and _precious_ ; his eyes and Sherlock’s hair, or his hair and Sherlock’s eyes. His nose, Sherlock’s mouth. Both of them together in one person, incredible. 

The sound of a door opening and closing down the corridor breaks John’s musing and he reluctantly turns away from the glass. He casts one last glance at the babies before he steels himself again and continues down the hallway, eventually arriving at the door that the nurse had just entered through. 

The sign says ‘Ultrasound’ and John takes a deep breath, closing his eyes as he raises a fist to the wood.


End file.
